


The Cap and Bells

by Telanu



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hotel Sex, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telanu/pseuds/Telanu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the film ends. Neither Miranda nor Christian can forget Andy Sachs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cap and Bells

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Luthien for her helpful comments.

* * *

Christian Thompson has many, many reasons to despise Miranda Priestly. The first, of course, is that she deprived him of a job that would have been both challenging and fun, not to mention cushy. The second is that she enticed Jacqueline, whom he'd considered a friend, to betray him without a word of warning. The third is that she lured Andy Sachs away, too--and he'd really, really started to like Andy Sachs.

The fourth, and most important reason, is that she is who she is. She never loses, she never fails, and she never cares. He has done all three, to his regret.

* * *

After Paris, he retreats to London to lick his wounds for a while. He's got some savings in the bank, so he takes a flat and holes up in it for a couple of months, intending to write: a few essays, some short stories perhaps, maybe even begin a novel. Only the words won't come, and his legendary self-discipline--which urges him to write every day even when he has nothing to say, and which has never failed him before--fails him now. He spends most of his days in a really bad mood, smoking too much, drinking too much, and realizing that maybe he should have stayed in Paris after all, where this sort of behavior is pretty much expected.

Instead Christian sits all day at his desk, where he uses an electric typewriter. He's the only person he knows who even owns one anymore. (They're probably going to stop making them altogether soon. Maybe he should stock up.) But he likes the loud clackity-clack of the keys, and he likes having a wastebin full of crumpled paper at the end of the day, because even if he failed miserably he's still got something to show for it. What do you have when you use a computer and can't think of anything to say? Nothing. A blank screen. No file worth saving. You might as well have stayed in bed all day. Not him: he's killed his quota of trees, and he's proud of it. But after a while, watching the paper pile up tends to get kind of depressing. He's only got, what, three usable pages out of countless lost sheets? Maybe he should go back to longhand. Maybe that would make him slow down. He thinks he's typing too fast, wasting words.

The invitation comes as a welcome distraction. A party at a posh hotel, full of movers and shakers, the kind of people he's been deliberately avoiding for two months. Jacqueline won't be there, he makes sure of that much. And there will be free booze, and good food, and educated company who just might bring him out of himself for a little while, give him some inspiration.

He did not know, did not even anticipate, that Miranda Priestly would be there. And now, standing in the middle of the party in his tux, staring at her from across the room, Christian reflects on how incredibly unfair life is. What's she even doing here? Doesn't _Runway_ have some big important feature coming up? Well, it always does. And maybe she's sending a message: she's so indispensable that she doesn't have to scurry around like the other peons, doesn't have to worry about getting fired, she can leave the office and come to a party in London if she wants to, and who will gainsay her? Nobody. Not even Irv Ravitz, whose tenure as chairman is coming to an end within the next year. He'd wanted to oust Miranda as a kind of crowning touch to his reign. But like Christian, like Andy and everybody else, Irv had learned the hard way that Miranda is the only royalty around these parts, and she's had her own crown bolted to her head for years. She's super-glued her ass to the throne. She can't be overthrown; she can only abdicate, and she won't do that until she damn well feels like it.

So Christian skulks around the party, trying not to look like he's skulking, and hoping she won't notice him.

She does.

He's on his third glass of champagne when he turns around, and there she is. He's so startled that he actually spills a little on his shirt, curses, and wants to disappear when she gives him an amused, scornful little smile.

"Mr. Thompson," she says. "I hear you've been in London for a few months now. Came here straight from Paris, didn't you?" He glares at her. "Getting a lot of writing done?" she adds, practically laughing in his face. "I was hoping to solicit you to write a piece for next May's issue."

A punch to the nose is too good for her, and besides, he doesn't hit women. If she is a woman. Instead, he manages a tight smile, and says, "Sorry, Miranda. I think I'm keeping a little too busy for that."

Miranda Priestly, they say, can smell a lie from a mile away. He'll never know if that's true, but he sees now that she can smell one when it's standing right in front of her. Her lip curls. "I'm sorry to hear it. Spoken to Jacqueline lately?" Her eyes are bright with malicious fun.

"Wow," Christian says. "You're really enjoying this. Okay. Laugh it up. Cheers." Her eyes gleam. "Oh, hey, I meant to ask," he adds. "How's the divorce coming along?"

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he can't believe he dared to say them. But they felt pretty fucking good, and besides, she's not the boss of him. She can't destroy him. Not every publication in the world is a subsidiary of Elias-Clarke, and not every ass Christian has to kiss is beholden to her. It's more the attitude, the mystique she carries around with her: you just don't talk to Miranda Priestly that way. No matter who, or what, you are.

Therefore, he's surprised when his words roll off her like water off a duck's back. "Speedily," she says, not batting an eye. Then he understands that he's not important enough to bother her, and his face burns with shame and rage.

Her eyes gleam again. She has noticed his anger. It pleases her; if she's the queen, then he is the jester-of-the-moment until she finds somebody else to pick on. "You're here all alone?" she adds, affecting surprise. "Now that's a shame."

Like any writer, Christian experiences occasional moments of inspiration. Because he's a better writer than most, Christian can instinctively tell which ones are going to work out: which moments have, at their core, some kind of truth. He shrugs, and tries a rueful smile. "Sorry," he says. "The last girl on my arm just walked out on me one day. Did the same to you, I understand." He sips his champagne, and adds, "You ever hear from Andy Sachs?"

For a moment--just one single moment--Miranda starts, and something that looks like genuine distress flashes in her eyes. Then it's gone. But he's seen it, and she knows he's seen it. "Once," she says, to his surprise. "I spotted her on the street. Nothing since." She lifts one elegant shoulder in a half-shrug. "I suppose she's doing well enough."

"She sure didn't appreciate what I tried to do to you," Christian says, pressing on. He's not sure where he's going with this, not yet. But he's found what might be a chink in her armor, and it's not like he has anything better to do at this party. If he can go home and say he managed to get on Miranda's Priestly's nerves, then he will feel that he accomplished something tonight. It might even be enough to eke out a paragraph or two.

Then again, it might not. He remembers, more often than he'd like to, the cold look in Andy's eyes as she said, _"I'm not your baby,"_ before disappearing through the door of his hotel room. And no matter how hard he tries, he can't manage to get good writing out of that. Not yet.

"Neither did I," Miranda says blandly. She inspects her fingernails. She is notorious for wearing nothing but clear polish, largely because she also notorious for having lovely hands that need no cosmetic help. The left one doesn't have any rings on it, either. "The gossip is that you and she had a little interlude. While she worked for me, no less."

"That's the gossip, huh?" Christian says, feeling his temper rise again. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to talk about this. Not about Andy, and definitely not to Miranda. "Who's gossiping about it?"

She waves dismissively. Then she looks him up and down, a critical expression on her face. "Well. She could have done worse, I suppose." Christian splutters wordlessly. Then she looks into his eyes.

"I have a room here," she says.

Christian just looks back at her for a moment, because it's a total non-sequitur, and why in the world would she just say-- Then his eyes widen.

"You've gotta be kidding," he says.

She isn't kidding. She never kids.

* * *

Christian can't believe he's doing this. He can't believe that he's following her to her room ten minutes after she left the party, that she will be waiting for him there, and that he didn't tell her no, or laugh in her face, or just walk away, full of pride in the knowledge that Miranda Priestly wanted to sleep with him and he'd turned her down.

But no. He's here, and she opens the door when he knocks. She tilts her head to the side like a bird, with a smile that manages to be both inquisitive and mocking. "Well," she says, as the door closes behind him. She touches his chest, feels his rapid heartbeat, and starts to unbutton his shirt. "You have quite a reputation to live up to."

"So do you," he manages, feeling frozen and like maybe he won't live at all, much less live up to anything.

"Really?" She raises her eyebrows and seems even more amused. "And what do they say about me?"

She tugs impatiently at his jacket sleeves, and he shrugs out of them, feeling like he's on an acid trip or something. "Oh," he says, "well, it kind of hits the extremes, you know? Either you're frigid or you're a nympho." Then he decides it's time to stop being such a pussy, grabs her hips, and yanks her towards him. "Right this second, I'd vote nympho, because--"

"You would be wrong," she says. "As you often are, I'm sure." She slides her hands, which are cold, up the back of his neck and pulls his head down. She kisses him. Cold hands, warm…mouth. Warm, and soft.

He doesn't want soft. Not from her. His hands fumble around her back, looking for the zipper to her gown while she squirms and murmurs agreeably. Then she pushes his shirt off, and the proceedings are well underway.

Christian hadn't been lying; he hasn't been with anyone since Andy, and that was two fucking months ago, two fucking months with no fucking at all. He's willing to bet it's the same for Miranda. Maybe longer. Unless she does this kind of shit all the time, which, hell, maybe she does. Maybe Christian's just the latest notch on her bedpost. Or her broomstick. He doesn't care. He strips her, she strips him, and then they're down on the bed.

He'd been gentle with Andy, that night. Andy had been sweet and responsive and surprisingly uninhibited. He'd loved her mouth, her scent, her body. He'd definitely looked forward to more.

With Miranda, he's pretty sure this is all he's going to get, so he gives it everything he's got. She doesn't want gentle, she doesn't want considerate, and she's definitely not sweet, but her body astonishes him. Her skin's as soft as a baby's ass all over, her breasts aren't bad, not at all, and her limbs are slender and surprisingly strong. Christian's head spins as she winds around him, and he finds himself thinking about flies, and webs, and venom and silk. He's already panting for air.

She grabs him tight, and now she's kissing him hard. She is already wet. She does not want to wait. She licks her palm, and then slides it down between their bodies, grabbing his dick and working it, winding him up with her cool, soft hand until he can't think at all, much less in metaphors. He is shocked by how hard he gets, and how fast--he'd half-wondered, on the way to the room, if he'd be able to get it up for her at all. Now he's got the opposite problem. He wonders, briefly, if she'd suck him off if he asked, and the thought of that, of grabbing her silver hair and fucking her mouth, makes him moan out loud. He has to concentrate hard to keep from coming before he's even gotten started.

His pants are at the foot of the bed, and he edges away from her body, makes a quick detour for the condom in his wallet. That helps. He tries to ignore the not-quite-a-sneer on her face as he unwraps it. "Always prepared," he tells her. "I thought about being an Eagle Scout--"

Miranda grabs the condom and rolls it on him like she's done it a million times in her sleep alone. "I cannot tell you," she says, "how old and tired," she throws one leg over his hip, "that line is," she pushes him down on his back, "and you call yourself a writer so you should know that," and then she sinks down. And Christian's _in her,_ he's actually inside Miranda Priestly, who tilts her head back with a groan the moment her ass comes down to rest on his thighs, the moment he is sheathed all the way.

Then Miranda opens her eyes and looks down at him with bright, wild eyes. "I hope," she pants, "that you screw better than you talk--"

He does. He grabs her hips--of fucking course she'd have to be on top--and starts moving, starts driving up and then back down, growling in the back of his throat while he coaxes moans out of hers. God. She's tighter than he expected, tighter than she has any right to be, and she must do those Kegel exercises or something because she's squeezing him harder and more rhythmically than a fist. He can hardly breathe. The bounce of her breasts hypnotizes him. She's got her eyes closed, and her teeth are bared in something very like a snarl. He wonders what she's imagining, what she's thinking about, and suddenly it really pisses him off that she might not be, in fact probably isn't, thinking about _him._

Christian sits up, making her grunt in surprise. "Roll over," he orders, and they do. She wraps her legs around his waist, urging and forcing him in deeper, which feels goddamned incredible, and this time she's looking into his eyes. She's sweating now, her makeup is running, and she's gasping for air, but she's still in command of herself. She's looking for something in his face.

He thinks he knows what it is, and for a second he really does hate her. "Is she why you're here?" he pants. "You want what Andy had?" Her eyes widen. "Her sloppy seconds?" She's totally going to kick him off her any second now, but it won't matter, it'll be worth it. He drives his hips in, hard, and surprises a cry out of her. It doesn't sound like pain. "Or is it something else--are you just wondering what it was like to fuck her, are you trying to find out or--"

But Miranda doesn't get angry. She doesn't kick him off, or out. She…grins. Her teeth are small, white, and perfect as she laughs up at him: a low chuckle that lets him know he's the butt of the joke. "Shouldn't you be asking me that?" she breathes.

Christian grabs her hands, pins her wrists to either side of her head, and begins pistoning his hips. The smirk slides right off her face, and she wriggles and squirms, and gasps, "Harder!" This is very much to his way of thinking, and he slams in again, giving it everything he's got, impossibly aroused by the thought that she might limp away from this encounter. Her skin is so unbelievably soft that his own hide feels like sandpaper; he feels like he's abrading her, roughing her up. And Jesus God, she is heavenly tight, and maybe she wanted Andy but she's stuck with him now, and he would never expected that she'd smell so good or feel so soft or get so wet--

Oh hell, if he isn't careful he's going to--

"Good God," she snaps, panting and heaving, "is this the best you can do?"

Jesus Christ! "She liked it like this," he growls before he can stop himself, and it's not even true, he hadn't treated Andy this way.

But Miranda's face goes red, and she turns away with a little gasp. "She," she manages between breaths, "she was always--easily--impressed--"

Christian pushes forward, forcing Miranda to raise her hips, so he can slide in even deeper, like he wants to shove all the way up to her throat. He kind of does. This isn't enough, and he can't believe it's not enough, can't imagine what more he could possibly want from her than a fast, hard fuck. "She made these little noises," he pants. "Little moans--and when she got close--when I made her come, it was like she started sobbing, almost crying--"

Miranda goes stiff as a board, her mouth opening wide; then she closes her eyes, arches her head back, and cries out, "Oh! _Oh!"_ This time, when she squeezes around him, it isn't controlled, it isn't rhythmic--she's coming. And he did it to her. He made her feel like this.

He keeps moving, keeps thrusting, and she writhes and whines beneath him until she's actually wheezing for air. She can't help herself. He can't stop watching her. He's never seen anything like her. "Yeah," he says, unable to stop moving, chasing after her. "You liked that, you liked that--"

Miranda opens her eyes, which are gratifyingly glassy and surprisingly blue. He's never noticed that before. She twitches her wrists, and he lets her go; she slides her arms up and around his neck, pulls him down closer and nips sharply at his bottom lip. Then she whispers--purrs, really-- "Imagine me. With her." She kisses his jaw. "Are you imagining that, Mr. Thompson? Can you picture it?"

He can. He is. Andy and Miranda twined together, white and dark hair, blue and dark eyes, swathes of pale, soft skin. Miranda isn't laughing at Andy, and Christian wants to tear them apart, separate them, take one for himself, and it's when he realizes which one he wants--when he realizes--this is when he comes, shaking all over, draining his balls dry in Miranda's welcoming body and groaning in her ear. She's laughing again, laughing still, and she coos, "Oh, very nice," while he shoots until he has nothing left to give. And he knows it's not just because of the long dry spell.

"My goodness," she says when he finally stops thrusting, and sags down against her. "I feel waterlogged."

"Agh," Christian replies. "Jesus." She chortles beneath him. They're both slick with sweat, and they're going to start sticking together in a minute if he doesn't move. He doesn't want to move. She scrapes her fingernails lightly over his ass, and he jerks and gasps.

"Mmm," she says, "out you go," and she slithers backwards until he slithers out, limp and wet and absurd. Then she grunts and sits up, stretching her back with a sigh. He watches the lift of her breasts, and realizes he hasn't touched or kissed them yet, and that she might not let him now. Which is a goddamned crime against humanity, and he wants to say as much, except that she slides off the bed before he can.

"I'm getting a shower," she says, and drags a hand through her hair. She looks a complete mess, and he's never seen anybody as desirable in his whole life. "You can see yourself out."

He stares at her, both because she's magnificent and because he can't believe she actually said that. "Excuse me?"

Miranda lifts her eyebrows at him, and her gaze becomes very cool. He is distantly surprised that a woman who is famous for fashion can be every bit as regal and imposing when she's bare-ass naked. She is thoroughly at home with her body, her nudity, and Christian realizes that in all the ways that matter she isn't naked at all. "I said you can see yourself out," she says. "I hope you won't have a problem with that. Why should you?"

Yeah, why should he? If he'd ever thought about sleeping with Miranda Priestly, which he hadn't until tonight, then he wouldn't have thought about cuddles and afterglow. Wouldn't have wanted them, either. He should have expected to get kicked out on his ass. But it isn't good, it isn't fun, it's fucking _unmanning_ , is what it is.

Wounded pride makes him cruel. "Answer my question first," he says.

"Which one?" she asks, checking her face in a mirror, and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She makes a small 'tsk'ing noise.

"Were you here with me because of her?" he asks.

He doesn't know what he'd expected her response to be. Maybe another little start, like she gave back at the party--some sign of feeling, of regret. Maybe a flash of anger, or at least of irritation. What he gets is a patronizing smile as she saunters over to him, and slides her fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

"Don't take it so hard, Mr. Thompson," she says, and actually pats him on the head before she steps away again. "Remember your Freud. Sometimes a penis is only a penis." She glances down at his, resting limply on his thigh. Thankfully, at that moment, she doesn't laugh. Maybe even Miranda realizes there are limits.

Before he can stop himself, Christian reaches out, and takes hold of her hand. "Hey," he says, but she stiffens and yanks her hand away. Her forbidding frown forestalls anything he might have said, and Christian rubs his hands over his face. "Okay," he mumbles against his palms, "can I at least use your toilet?"

"Last I checked, there was a perfectly serviceable one in the lobby," she says, and vanishes into her bathroom. The lock clicks into place.

That--that-- "I'm going to write about you!" he yells at the closed door, standing up and hunting around for his briefs. "A thinly-veiled roman à clef!"

"I'll die of shame," Miranda's voice calls back, and then the shower hisses on. Christian drops his head back into his hands.

He pulls on his pants and thinks about calling her later. He buckles his belt and decides that she'd hang up on him and block his number. He buttons up his shirt and thinks about trying to bust down the bathroom door. He's putting his tie back on while he admits that he'd look like the biggest idiot ever, and she'd be fully justified in laughing her head off. He puts on his jacket, winces at the way he still smells like sweat and come, and decides his best bet is to run into her at another party sometime. Hell, she'd enjoyed herself. She might let him back for seconds. At her fucking leisure.

This is how she beat Irv, and anybody else who's ever challenged her. She's got one simple strategy: be unbeatable. Well--almost unbeatable. Maybe. Christian smoothes down his hair, makes sure he's got his wallet (sans one soggy condom, which he deliberately leaves in the middle of Miranda's mattress), and wonders again about Andy Sachs. He wonders if Andy has beaten Miranda, if she's won, and if Miranda can admit it, even to herself. And if so, what Andy's secret is. Can Christian duplicate it? Can Miranda be defeated twice at her own game?

He remembers the knowing, mocking light in her blue eyes, and decides that it's as much as his life is worth to try. Nope. Realistic expectations, those are the key. Miranda's husbands all tried to be kings. No deal. But if you could caper around the throne and amuse the queen for long enough, you were in with a chance. Christian has the sneaking suspicion that with Miranda Priestly, a chance is all you ever get. He isn't certain that he's wasted his. Not yet.

In the meantime, he's the one limping for the door. He thinks maybe he strained something. She might not have been the absolute best lay he's ever had, but he's hard-pressed to remember one that was more intense, or that left him feeling more turned inside-out.

So he definitely has something to write about now. He might even do this one in longhand, just for fun. Forget the rest of the party, forget all the people he hasn't talked to yet--he needs to go home and get started right away. When the muse grabs you by the balls, you obey her.  
  
Besides, he's got to hurry, if he wants to submit something interesting to Miranda's junior editors in time for the May issue.

Fin.

* * *


End file.
